A house made of memory
by Evil's Sidekick
Summary: a quiet little story about peeta being broken after the war and gale fixing him. on the way, they both find out what it is to be home. post-mockigjay au, gale/peeta slash.


**A house of memories**

There's nostalgia in the air, and you're counting clouds as they pass unhurriedly by. It's a wonderful thing to be doing.

You laugh slower now, a bit more guarded, but your smile is as ready as ever and it makes your face light up. It's good to see you smile, he says. You should smile more, he says.

So you do.

Daytime, you test your hand in pictures made of sugar and color, memories melting in your mouth. Simple patterns to start off with; flowers with petals open to the sun, shy vines creeping up pillars. The knowledge that you have done this before makes it easier. Familiarity is something you value above all else.

And so this becomes familiar, and you hum to yourself, quiet neutral tune that swims tentatively from a roped-off corner of your mind. You don't prod anymore at the bleeding wounds in your brain; your reward is this little melody that offers itself from the debris, like a shy child asking to be friends, and you say yes.

Later, when the sun sets and the world goes a shade of melting scarlet, your heart rate picks up, a little. You count the stepping stones across the creek and the fish streak beneath you, reflecting the terrible gold of the dying sun. You count your footsteps up the tended, grassy path up the hill to the small house made of stories.

You unlock the door and the world has settled down from the tumult of the sunset by then, fitting snugly into a shade of sweet, dark blue. Slowly, almost silently, you resume humming to yourself once more. You move around the kitchen, filling the kettle, setting the table. There's a simple joy in this, a joy you're beginning to recognize like an old friend waving from a distance. Away from the shrapnel and pieces of civilization, he's calling to you; _there's a place where the sidewalk ends, where the grass grows soft and white and you don't have to be so broken anymore._ It's a good place to be.

There are no clocks in this house made of stories, of folk tales and memories. You're glad about that, because otherwise it seems like the world is spinning on without you, as if it were a carpet being pulled out from underneath your feet. This way, you have time to cast about and find yourself from the memories this house is made of. You have all the time in the world.

Then, the quiet knock on the door, and you smile, wide and instinctive.

You smiling makes him smile, too, once you open the door. He's not much older than you are, not much different, either. His big grey eyes narrow at the corners, and his the sweep of his jaw is strong, decisive. You will never mistake him for anyone else, not when the crowds are milling in, not when you're drowning. He's chuckling a little, too; "You're ridiculous, you're lovely," and he says it like it's a gift, something precious to be stored in the bottom of your pocket and reached for when you're scared.

The two of you sit at the table designed for the two of you. You don't speak while you eat, except for the millions and millions of words that simmer warmly in the air when your knees touch his, and he looks at you and smiles. Those are the words that need no voice, no translation. Words that aren't words at all, but a general wish of well-being: _hope you're okay, hope we'll be okay for the rest of our lives._

Rinsing the plates, passing them to him to be dried. Sometimes you switch roles, and it doesn't make a difference. Routine is in the way your arm brushes his, the warm, enclosed space of the kitchen. Routine is in the familiarity with which he drapes an arm around your waist and kisses you, butterfly-soft, the suds on your hands drying and you smiling the whole time.

Outside, the stars jostling for space in the inky black sky, and he mentions that so many wishes must come true on nights like these. You slip your hand into his, and you look up.

This is joy, home. This is where you want to be, after all.

**A/N: 'where the sidewalk ends' by shel silverstein is quoted somewhere in the fic. Funny thing is, I used to hate that poem until peeta came along.**

**No dialogs in this fic, big challege. Hope I pulled it off. What do you think?**


End file.
